Page 94 of Down Knot Out
Boots sound heavy on the stairs, and Nathaniel’s voice comes through the open doorway, followed by Blake’s rougher baritone as they discuss deliveries and equipment.
But the conversation cuts off the moment they step into the family room.
They’re both still in work clothes, dusty shirts, sweat-darkened collars, boots they should’ve left by the door. Dirt streaks Nathaniel’s khakis, and Blake’s flannel hangs open, his shirt smeared with sawdust.
They freeze, the tension in the room obvious as I sit curled up with Grady and Quinn huddles in her nest with uneasiness written across her face.Sprinkles sits upright beside her, body taut with alertness.
“What’s wrong?” Nathaniel steps forward first, his leather and clove pheromones reaching toward me, Blake a step behind him.
“My editor called,” I manage, throat rough from trying not to hold back my tears. “They want me to disappear until the Sinclair situation resolves itself.”
Nathaniel’s jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath his controlled surface. He moves closer, perching on the edge of the coffee table, our knees almost touching. “Explain.”
The words tumble out in a rush. Jennifer’s careful corporate language, the legal department’s concerns about liability, and the marketing team’s fears about brand damage. It feels worse with the second telling, the humiliation burning.
“They want documentation of any litigation or estate disputes,” I continue, wiping my nose with the back of my hand. “They want to know if my connection to the Sinclairs will cause complications for theirbrand.”
Blake’s hands curl into fists at his sides, his knuckles white beneath the dirt and scratches from a day’s hard work. “They’re treating you like a liability.”
“Because that’s what I am.” The words escape before I can stop them. “A messy Omega with complicated bloodlines and family drama that creates problems for everyone around me.”
Grady’s arm tightens around my shoulders, his breathing shifting from calm to agitated, his steady presence crackling with contained fury.
“This is absolutely ridiculous. They can’t just shelve an author because her biological father is a piece of shi—work,” he revises with a glance toward Quinn.
His agitation rises with each word, the stutter that usually marks his speech disappearing in the face of righteous anger. “You’ve delivered every manuscript on time. Your sales numbers are strong. Your readers love you. But they want to hide you away because of circumstances beyond your control?”
He bolts to his feet and paces around the side of the couch. “I’m calling them. Right now.Thisis why authors have agents. To protect them from this kind of corporate bullshit.”
“Grady, don’t—” I start, but he’s already moving toward the door with determined strides.
“Oh, I’m absolutely going to give them an earful,” he calls over his shoulder. “Starting with a detailed explanation of author rights and endingwith some very pointed questions about their definition of ‘brand protection.’ They should never have come to you first with any of this bullsh—malarky.”
His footsteps echo down the stairs, punctuated by the sharp sound of a door slamming. The family room falls into silence, broken only by Quinn’s soft breathing.
Blake moves to the couch, settling into Grady’s abandoned seat. His warm palm covers mine where it rests on my knee. “Give me your phone.”
I blink at him in confusion. “What?”
“Your phone.” He extends his hand, palm up. “Give it to me.”
“Blake, I need to?—”
“No phones until you’re yourself again,” he says with gentle firmness. “Those are the rules.”
Despite everything, a laugh bubbles up, breathy and surprised but real. “You can’t confiscate my phone.”
“Watch me.” He plucks the device from my loose grip and slides it into his shirt pocket. “No publishers, no editors, no legal departments. Only pack. I’m of a mind to get you a new phone altogether. This one just causes problems.”
“You’ll have to get me a new email, too,” I mutter, but my mood is already lifting.
Nathaniel’s mouth curves into a tiny grin. “That can be arranged. Chloe@MistyPines is a click away from being yours.”
The simple authority in their voices sends warmth spreading through me, chasing away some of the cold left by Jennifer’s call. These men don’t treat me like a liability or a risk assessment. To them, I’m family. Someone worth protecting from forces that seek to diminish my worth to dollar signs and marketing strategies.
Quinn slides across the couch cushions to curl against my side, her small body warm. “I like it better when you don’t have your phone, anyway. You tell better stories without it.”
Quinn’s sleepy statement hits harder than any legal notice or contract clause.
